I Killed Santa

This is one of my least-proud and possibly most hilarious Christmas stories.

I was in second grade--the same grade my oldest son now attends, and I got into an argument with another 7-year-old. He was attempting to explain to me exactly how Santa enters his house because they didn't have a chimney. I believe it had something to do with leaving the back door unlocked and lighting a kind of runway in the back yard so he'd know not to land on the roof. The child was positive this worked because each year he received all the presents he asked for.

I calmly explained to this child, and all the children around me that Santa Claus did not exist, and that their parents were only fooling them so they'd behave for a few weeks before Christmas day. You see, my parents hadn't raised me to believe in Santa Claus. I really don't count it a loss. I remember my mother placing the wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree weeks before Christmas and I would sit in front of the tree and imagine what the colorful packages might contain. My children do the exact same thing now. (We compromised though--my kids believe Santa stuffs their stockings. It's the best of both worlds!)

At any rate, my declaration did not go over well in my second-grade class. There was much shouting and several kids burst into tears. My teacher finally took me out into the hallway. The exchange in the hallway is forever etched into my mind.

"Jeremy, you can't tell kids there's no Santa. They believe he's real."

"But he's not real. You know that right?"

"Well...yes."

"So, it's lying! Are you telling me to lie to them?"

The look on her face was priceless. "Well, just don't talk about it then."

It was a collision of cold reality and beautiful child-like faith, and I'm surprised that as I've grown older, such collisions have actually become more frequent.